


rocks and waters, etc.

by friendly_ficus



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (minor) spoilers up to episode 97, Codex Entries, Gen, because here I am, did someone say whitestone history?, making some up, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 06:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11823258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendly_ficus/pseuds/friendly_ficus
Summary: A city does not come from nothing. (Neither do the people born within it.)Alternatively, the de Rolo family assisted in the birth of Whitestone, and in return, it loves them.





	1. past: shadow owes its birth to light

 Before there is a city of Whitestone, there is a great tree in the mountains, and underneath its branches there is a man dreaming. His name is Corak, and though his hair is graying his body remains strong from adventures in distant lands, and his faith grows stronger still. Once, people called him a champion, voices hushed in awe.

 Here he is a farmer, and he thanks Pelor for his harvests and for the mild days in winter that are so few and far between. His bones ache in the cold, and though he is not yet an old man, he feels each battle. But now, he dreams, and what he sees-

 A shining city, gleaming bright in the late afternoon sun, curling around the Sun Tree and growing and growing, flying no flag but its own.

 When he wakes, he is sun-warmed and filled with purpose.

 (And really, the people around him- these miners and merchants and farmers- what loyalty do they owe to some far-off empire?)  
 (Whitestone is a city born in war and revolution. And the stones have such very long memories.)

 So Corak, Champion of Pelor, puts out a call. To the people around him, to the faithful far from him, to the land and wind and the great Sun Tree.

 And they answer him.

\---

  _[Found half-burned, presumably damaged after one of the many purges to the library of Whitestone Castle during the Briarwood Occupation. The letter has been written in a formal script, though the sender’s name is undecipherable. The paper is ancient but, disregarding fire damage, it is remarkably intact. Catalogued by Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 These words from my hand to the eyes of Alden de Rolo-

 Brother,

 As I write this, Champion Corak is speaking to the soldiers that accompanied the caravan you sent. (For without you to speak with Father, I know we would not have such support from the family.) We are grateful for the aid, but it is my belief that you may not find all of your people returned as quickly as you might hope. Corak is a righteous man, and his belief in our cause is capable of drawing many to take up arms- as it has drawn me.

 And no, that was not an invitation to look into his family tree- he is a great man, and his faith is inspiring, but he is too old for me and has little interest in such things.

 What I can tell you of our recent actions is limited, for secrecy remains necessary even as I write you, whom I trust above all others. I _can_ tell you about the aftermath of the fight in the northern side of the forest, as the battle was long and terri

  _[This section of the paper has burns and damage that match the end of the letter, as if it were folded before being thrown into the fireplace. Large amount of text unreadable.]_

 -despite the losses, we will continue to fight.

 Keep your little sister in your thoughts, for I feel I could follow this man into the Nine Hells, despite the dangers along the way. His dream has, increasingly, become my own.

 Wish us luck in our endeavor,

 Your determined sister,

  _[Name unreadable, length of the remaining paper indicates a postscript may have been included.]_

\---

 Before there is a city of Whitestone, there is a group of people who believe fiercely in their own independence, and there is a man who channels that belief into a will to fight. Corak is a symbol of the rightness of their cause, and his two-handed sword gleams in the sunlight. However, Corak is a warrior and a man of faith, and he realizes that his strengths do not lie in the logistics of running a revolutionary force. He brings people in, keeps them fighting, and when it comes to organizing caravan routes and managing disagreement between factions, he turns to Julia de Rolo.

 She is the second child of the de Rolo family. With their distant roots in foreign nobility, the de Rolos are merchants in a vague way and sort of almost-nobles. They have money, they have some forces, and most importantly- they have the connections needed to set up supply lines, even to small rebel camps that do not, officially, exist.

 Despite her relative youth (most of them seem so young to him, these soldiers he has made. Someday, when they are free, youths of this age will only need to worry about silly things. He hopes that day is soon, for the weight he places on their shoulders is so heavy) Julia is capable and vicious when they are presented with a threat.

 She plans and plots and he sees her doing it, sees her weighing decisions she is too young to make. (Troop movements and supply chains and she’s only in her twenties, gods, when he was in his twenties he was laughing along with bard songs in taverns. He has made her carry this.)

 So when a thin man comes walking out of the deep forest, with too-green eyes that glint with strange light and skin pale like stone, asking to join the fight, Corak brings him to the tent where Julia hunches over her maps and missives.

 The man smirks, his odd pale hair shifting in a nonexistent breeze, and when Julia asks his name he does not truly answer.

 “Call me Oliver, _Lady_ de Rolo.”

 “Then you _must_ call me Julia, _Oliver._ ”

 (When Corak asked the land for aid, he meant it in good weather, maybe a mild winter. Something from the Sun Tree. Not like this, with something a step sideways from reality. Still, it’s a tough fight that promises to get tougher, and they need all the help they can get.)

 Corak argues with her for half an hour, before the horns that signal an attack cut the air. Julia throws up her hands and yes, fine, he can stay.

 Once the Champion of Pelor, shining symbol of this rebellion and seasoned adventurer leaves the tent, Julia’s face hardens and she glares at the strange man before her. When she speaks, her voice is as measured as a childhood full of etiquette can teach.

 “If you betray us,” and her hand tightens on the longsword at her side, and her eyes are full of promise, “I will kill you myself.”

 He grins at her, strange eyes gleaming.

 She gets the distinct sense that he’d like to see her try.

\---

  _[A journal found hidden in the false back of a bookshelf in the main study of Whitestone Castle. The book is in excellent condition, though the spine is weak and deteriorating quickly. Inside of the gray cover, the name Julia de Rolo is written. It is possible that the handwriting matches that of letter 267, found earlier this year. Catalogued by Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 ...It is easy to look backwards, now, and try to romance the war. No one wants to remember being hungry and afraid and in pain- we would much rather act as though it was a glorious thing. Without the revolution there would be no Whitestone, after all, and the children do not understand that a great city can be born from a gruesome womb.

 But I cannot tell my children war stories, as some parents do, as if it was all some great adventure. I still dream it sometimes- the smell of ashes and blood, the sound of troops, the fear of it all. Every choice I made had consequences, and they weighed me down on the nights where I tried to sleep. Many nights, I did not try. How can I tell my children this? How can I explain to them the sight of life leaving someone’s eyes? The worry when I received reports from troops I had moved as a part of some flawed plan? No, I will not tell them of the war.

 Corak was my friend, a man I respected and trusted above all others, but even he could not brighten those dark nights. And Oliver did not try to, then. I think we were still alien to him, as unknowable as he was to us.

 Now I gaze from my window down to the city and each day, I wonder if I made the right choices. If I had moved the mercenaries to the south, rather than the north, would they have lived? What caravans should I have prioritized, what could I have changed.

 It is good to focus on now, on the new castle and the growing town, but some days the past consumes me. Corak was a great man but when I think of how young I was to be doing what I did- only eight years older than my eldest- I cannot help but be angry with him. I was too young, to try and steer a movement of desperate people. To decide who lived and who died...

_[The journal is 350 pages long, and there are entries for nearly every day of an eight-month period. It appears that it was kept by the first ruler of Whitestone, and has survived through the ages reasonably protected from the wear and tear that comes with time.]_

\---

 Before there is a city of Whitestone, there is a war.

 Corak rallies the faithful who have joined their cause to protect the Sun tree, speaks to soldiers and adventurers who have joined seeking glory, reminds farmers why they want to be free and independent. Oliver watches him from the shadows (for someone so pale, he blends in remarkably well with the trees) and something of the oddness in his frame softens.

 Julia sits with her maps and her meetings and her plans and wonders if this is drowning, if the wave of their cause is pulling her under, sweeping out her legs. There’s just so _much_ of it, so many lists to make and schedules to coordinate, and it’s so cold now at night. She always feels cold, even as she gulps down strong, dark tea. She cannot stop working, there is no space for it. Julia only fights on a few of the battlefields (there are not very many grand battles in this war, but there are a few and she is present) but they haunt her, and for every ounce of support she receives there is a cost.

 Tonight, though, all the reports give them at least three days of breathing room. (At least, according to her sources. How can they ask her people to judge troop movement, in a world with magic? How can she know that their enemies will not simply pop into existence around them?) Tonight, all the reports are _almost_ right.

 Julia is trying to sleep, after Corak himself came and ordered her to it. (She would have refused, but he looked at her with that sad, proud look she cannot bear. He walked her away from her strategies, to the front of the tent she shared with some of her scouts. And something shifted slightly in his demeanor, as he looked at her. Some certainty settled across his face.

 He told her, “I want you to know, Julia, that I am proud of the work you have done. Never doubt that much of our success comes directly from you.”

 And really, what was she supposed to say to that? Thank you? It seemed like nothing. She thanked him anyway, and he bid her goodnight as if he were her father bent over his books, far away and distracted.)

 Julia is trying to sleep, when the alarm is raised. She’s up and moving before her thoughts catch up to her body, sword in hand as she steps out of the tent. Moving towards her in the moonlight is Oliver, face cold with fury and grief, and there can only be one reason for that. There can only be one _person_ for that.

 A wail comes up from the rest of the camp, and Julia’s hands start shaking. There’s an icy wind blowing harder, harder- the torches blow out.

 And Oliver is at her side, and then the enemy is everywhere.

\---

_[Found in a hidden cabinet cleverly disguised as part of the west tower staircase. A pamphlet with an early crest of Whitestone on the cover, celebrating the tenth anniversary of laying the  cornerstone of Whitestone Castle. Number 1 of 16 documents contained within. Catalogued by Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 CORAK’S ARMY

 Written By Scout Onra

 -

   When the Long Night came,

 Yea I took up arms,

   With my bow I took aim,

 As they sounded alarms.

   “The champion’s dead!”

 Those damn bastards cheered-

   Look ‘round you, you fools,

 His legacy’s here.

 -

_[The pamphlet contains three more poems, including one written by the famous bard Rona, titled Green Glass and Stone. The other two are Under the Sun Tree, which has nine verses and appears to have had a tenth added specifically for the occasion, and Drink Up! (Or Aren’t We Free), which remains a popular tavern song to this day.]_

\---

 Before there is a city of Whitestone, there is a man with a dream. Then, there isn’t.

 Corak is dead, assassins infiltrating under cover of darkness and summoning their own allies. It’s chaotic, tents burning away, allies and enemies dying all around them. There’s shouting and it echoes through the camp in waves, a cacophony of sound. This is the sort of night that makes or breaks revolutions.

 Julia can not, _will not_ let this break them. Side by side and back to back, she and Oliver remain within sight of each other as the fight drags on and on and on- and the ground under her feet grows unstable, tripping up enemies while letting her move unhindered. Oliver’s eyes, across the clearing they’re in, are gleaming brighter than she’s ever seen them. The flow of the fighting **_shifts_ ** \- and then they’re pushing the enemy back, back, _back_ and the sun is rising.

 The sun rises, and Corak is still dead.

 The survivors (they are victors, but no one at the battle will ever call it a victory) make for one of the few boltholes Julia thinks will be secure (didn’t she think camp was secure?), and Corak is still dead.

 Julia stumbles, exhausted, and Oliver catches her arm to keep her moving, and Corak is still dead.

 But gods, they can hardly let the revolution fail now. Julia makes some speech (she doesn’t remember it, she’ll never remember it) about legacy and loyalty and revolution, and Oliver stands beside her, strong and otherworldly, and it works.

 (He remembers it, the way she set her exhaustion aside and looked at her people, diminished. The light in her eyes, the furious challenge she gave them.

 “Corak is dead,” and her voice rang in his ears like bells, tolling out each word, “but Whitestone can still live. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I will die before giving up on his dream.”

 And something in Oliver, some raging boiling in the blood solidifies, and he murmurs to her-

 “So will I.”)

\---

  _[A scrap of paper, which fell out of bookshelf 1-C in the library as I was cataloguing books. It was behind the gardening volumes, which went largely untouched during the recent occupation of Whitestone. Written in solid, thick handwriting, as if someone pressed the quill almost too tightly to the paper. Catalogued by Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 ...and I don’t _care_ what mother says, we should be focusing on the future, not the past! Whitestone can be a great city, the de Rolos can make it one, so why should I worry about what happened when the city was formed? Five champions of Pelor have lived here, why does the first one matter more? Anyway, yes I will meet with you in three days, back behind the barracks, you know the place. Bring the stuff- L.

  _[Further research reveals that this note was written by one Ludwig de Rolo, presumably just days before the beginning of the Briarwood occupation. It will be recorded in the archive, before being set aside for Lady Cassandra de Rolo to review, as is the protocol for anything written by a member of her immediate family.]_

\---

 Before there is a city of Whitestone, there is a woman meeting with a delegation from a far away land. They sit at a table under the great Sun Tree, in the warmth of a late spring day. (The negotiators hate each other, hate that they must sit at this table in the name of peace. They are beings of war, now, and the pretend friendship they wear chafes.) And next to the woman, there is a man with an inhuman smile.

 Julia de Rolo is perched delicately on her chair, as if she was not the architect of one of the great guerrilla warfare campaigns of her time. As if her plans have not led to the deaths of people these negotiators knew. There is a map of the continent spread across the table, and she is marking out a border.

 Oliver leans over and murmurs something soft, the shadows of the tree playing oddly over his face.

 ( _There is something not right in that man_ , one survivor of the spring campaign had said. _He looks at you- I can’t put my finger on it, but he’s not_ **_right_ ** _. I saw him in the trees once, just standing there, and I still have nightmares about it._ )

 And Julia leans back, and smiles. There is something dangerous in hers, as well.

 “Now, gentlemen, are we agreed upon the borders of Whitestone?”

 (She thinks about Corak, whose joints already ached before the fighting began. His shoulders carried such purpose- it spilled from him like a river, into other people. She thinks of friends she lost during the Long Night and the battles after it. And she knows, she knows, this is the only offer of peace she can make. It already feels like she’s spitting on their graves.)

 Thankfully, they agree. The negotiators leave the next morning, and Julia stands under the great Sun Tree and breathes and for the first time in an age, her shoulders relax. A new city, a  free state- is this not what she promised them?

 (She asked Corak, in the earliest days, “How can you build a city? How do you pay for it?”

 He had laughed and smiled, and his eyes had wrinkled, and he had not answered. She knows, now. The glint of sunlight off armor and the cold light of morning after a battle and the warmth of noon- these are things she knows now.

  _How do you build a city?_ She thinks of Corak, and the dead. There has been a cost to everything she has gained.

  _How do you build a city? You pay for it in blood._ )

 Then she turns and Oliver is beside her, and when she meets his eyes he smiles. Morning light softens him, gentles the harshness of his face and the wildness in his eyes. He clears his throat and stops- he reaches up a hand to touch her cheek. She does not flinch, and his hand is warm.

 “You have a city now, Julia de Rolo. What more would you have of me?”

 “Stay.”  
 (He does.)

\---

  _[Found in a hollowed-out copy of_ Devouring/Devoured, _which in its own right was a rather risque novel for its time. The journal has 52 pages, but there is evidence that some were ripped out during its use. The cover is red. Catalogued by Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 ...they say the city loved her, isn’t that romantic? It doesn’t seem possible, but I read it for myself in a history book once. Couldn’t find the book after that, though. Maybe Mother found it, or someone else. I remember it _really_ well, there was a very long poem about Whitestone and the de Rolos being children of the land. It was mostly figurative language- that’s how all the old poems are- but people must have really liked her to say that the city was in love with her! I wonder if I’ll ever be in love...

  _[The entry continues in picture form, with rather good sketches of a young dark-haired woman and a faceless man surrounded by hearts. Underneath the picture, there is a caption that reads “The de Rolos,” surrounded by more hearts.]_

\---

 There is a city of Whitestone, and there is a castle on the hill where three generations of de Rolos have lived.

 When Julia de Rolo died, Oliver walked back into the forest- eyes glinting in the dusk, stone-face dark with sadness, and he did not walk back out. He vanished into the trees- his footsteps ended abruptly on the trail.

 (They don’t go looking- the city has been there long enough for people to learn a few rules of the land. Do not go into the forest searching- you might find something.

 Years in the future, the process of refining the stone from the mines will be discovered. The resulting product is too-green, catches the light and _holds_ it. No one will remember Oliver de Rolo’s eyes, but if they did- well, surely that would be ridiculous.)

Whitestone is a city whose stones remember war, battles and betrayals both large and small. Stone has a long memory, and war leaves deep impressions.

 It remembers love too- displayed openly in a star on the crest of the city, protected in a crypt beneath the castle, turning tired children away from the edge of the trees. Whitestone loves the de Rolos, _loves_ them in its odd almost-conscious way. It loves the people of the town, too, but it’s not a person. It doesn’t love things in the way a person does.

 Whitestone is a city born from war, paid for in blood, and these cycles repeat themselves.

 


	2. present: there is no avoiding war

 

 Whitestone loves the de Rolos.

 (Once, while exploring the castle, a six-year-old Percy stumbled into the crypt. It was dark and frightening for a child, even one who would grow into a mad genius. The air was heavy and it pressed down on him, the weight of the dead, watching. He had been afraid, and he had cried. It seemed as though he too would die down there.

 In the distance, he heard a voice call his name and ran, blindly, towards it. He reached the ground floor in half the time it should’ve taken.

 Once, Vesper had been writing- a little story, an amusement for her younger siblings- and a cold draft ceased abruptly. The candle she was writing by burned a little brighter, she got the sense something was watching her.

 Something behind her stone-stiff spine laughed.

 Once, Cassandra- the baby of the family, the precious youngest daughter- tripped, at the top of the stairs. Something caught her arm before she could fall.)

 It loves them in the way a city can- possessive and inhuman, furious when threatened, cold and warm in turns- and it isn’t enough.

 (On one cold night, the Briarwoods came to dinner.)

\---

   _[The first item taken from a crate of sensitive information given to this archivist by Lady Cassandra de Rolo, nine years after the Briarwood Occupation of Whitestone. Item is a small note, folded in quarters. Writing is small as well, in blocky letters. Catalogued by Senior Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 Destroy after reading-

 Guard rotation on him is two hours before noon, seven hours after. Mainly consistent. (Take Lord P. and friends into account, as their arrival can change any schedule.) May be best to act at night. Must be fast and quiet- it’s about justice, not chaos and violence. Had enough of those for any lifetime. (If one more drop of Whitestone blood is spilled, we _must_ immediately cease our actions.)

  _[On the back of the note, there is a smudge of dirt and what appears to be tree sap.]_

\---

 They die, the de Rolos and their loyal retainers, blood spreading across the floor of the castle- they fade into the silence of history.

 (One by one, people forget Frederick and Johanna and Julius and Oliver and Vesper and Whitney and Ludwig. Whitestone does not forget. How can you forget the children you sheltered, the births you witnessed, the deaths you saw. If the city was built on a weaker foundation than stone, it would surely collapse under the weight of generations.)

 The stones of the castle grind, creak, cry out in white-hot _fury_ and go as unheard as they always do. Cassandra is unconscious but if she were awake, she would be weeping. Percival hears nothing but the roar of his own grief in his ears, the snap of bone, the sigh that leaves his brother’s chest. His focus narrows, his thoughts solidify and he realizes- there is no future within which coexistence is possible. There is no world where he would not die to bring ruin to these people. It etches across his soul, burdens his shoulders with certainty.

 (It takes Percy time, later, to figure out what this means: the moment a drop of his family’s blood hit the stones, he was ruined for peace.)

\---

  _[A new, twelfth verse added on to the popular tavern song Drink Up! (Or Aren’t We Free). Heard late in the night before the tenth Winter’s Crest since the Briarwood Occupation. Catalogued by Senior Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 ...And let me tell you, gentlefolk

 (Yes, even the ones who’ve been drinkin’!)

 Of the death of “Sir” Kerrion Stonefell,

 How Lord Percival shot his head in...

  _[The verse leaves some details out while exaggerating others, as there are ten lines describing the actions of one Scanlan Shorthalt against Goran Vedmire and only one mention of the fact that a bear was traveling with Vox Machina the entire journey, but overall it seems to be a fairly accurate rendition of a few major deaths in the revolution.]_

\---

 War blooms in Percival, like Vesper’s choking gasps, like the odd bend to Ludwig’s neck, like the arrows in Cassandra’s chest. It sinks deep in him, takes root. As he runs from his sister’s steaming body, it grows.

 (Percival does not hear the mournful cry that comes up from the stones as he runs- Whitestone loves him in a way that means it wants to keep him, no matter the damage caused. This is a price that is left for Cassandra to pay. Even as the land sickens and dies, it holds the de Rolo’s close to its core. Even when it hurts them.)

 He does not see the pale, lanky man step from the treeline to his sister’s body- he does not see that she still breathes, that she will survive even this. (He does not know that Whitestone is loath to allow another de Rolo to die.)

 Later, in the darker moments of his life, he will wonder- if he’d known she was alive, would he have kept running?

\---

  _[The seventh document in the small crate of sensitive information given to this archivist by Lady Cassandra de Rolo, nine years after the Occupation. It appears to be a list of supplies, some of which are crossed out and some of which have been underlined multiple times, presumably for emphasis. Catalogued by Senior Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 ...asked old lady Monika what to take with me into the forest, she looked at me like I was an idiot. Then she told me that I should carry all of these things and _hope_ I don’t need them, rather than needing one and not having it. It was the craziest thing though, she never asked me why I was going in. Just told me to be careful, because I might find what I was looking for.

 To bring: a needle and thick thread, a vial of holy oil, a knife with a light enchantment on it, a holy symbol of Pelor, a rock from my own garden (or one from the yard of someone I love), my usual hunting gear, a fruit picked on the morning I leave, a picture of Whitestone’s crest... I am _not_ bringing a kitten with me, no matter how innocent they may be...

  _[The list continues for two pages, and includes such things as_ “a lock of hair from my oldest female relative” _and_ “an acorn” _. It is unclear whether the hunter acquired all of these items before leaving the city, as many remain unmarked on the list.]_

\---

 On the deck of a gently rocking ship, Percival de Rolo closes his eyes in exhaustion and tumbles down into sleep. On this night, the ship passess over a deeper, colder part of the sea (the Captain says it’s only a trench, but her fingers tighten around a usually-ignored holy symbol- sailors are faithful even when they do not visit temples very often- and the crew on duty is uneasy) and Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the Third dreams.

 In the dream he stands in a dark place, painfully vulnerable- he hears the awful tearing sound the sword made in Julius’ back, hears his mother screaming and his father’s furious shout- painfully alone. Something rests its head on his shoulder in the way Cassandra used to, when she was trying to read his books without looking interested. Something looks up into his face at the same angle Ludwig used to tilt his head.

  **_“Percival,”_ ** it croons, caressing, **_“you were born for war.”_ **

 He shudders, and in the waking world the Captain glances at him briefly, before returning to her symbol. Sleep over these waters is always uneasy.

  **_“Percival, wouldn’t you like your proper Vengeance?”_ **

\---

  _[The fifth item taken from a crate of sensitive information given to this archivist by Lady Cassandra de Rolo, nine years after the Occupation. The item is a thin journal made of cheap paper, with a blue cloth cover. There appear to be entries spanning a month of time, beginning eight days after the Winter’s Crest immediately following the Occupation. Catalogued by Senior Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 ...and I had a brother once, too, and if I could have him back again I’d probably do anything he wanted. But Lady Cassandra was _here_ , she _knows_ how we suffered under the heel of those “new nobles”. She should stand up for this! We’re grateful to Lord Percival’s group, Vox Machina, two of them were even regulars in my bar leading up to Winter’s Crest- but what business do they have making decisions for Whitestone?

 I had a brother once, before Goran Vedmire’s men killed him. Why is my brother worth less than Lord Percival’s family? Something must be done, this cannot stand...

 _[The journal continues in a similar vein for one and a half more pages, before a different entry begins by describing the Sun Tree’s branches in winter. The woman who wrote this journal had an eye for imagery, and if the_ “clawing fingers in the branches” _is anything to go by, she also had nightmares.]_

\---

 War has grown in Percy, taken root in his soul and strangled out anything else growing. Vengeance curls around his mind, singing soft songs. They remind him of his mother in some twisted way, how a few of his memories of her are songs in Celestial. His dreams don’t hum in any language he recognizes. And he doesn’t know the singer’s name.

 Names are sacred things, and with them Percy canonizes and condemns- he does not speak his family’s names, not even in the dark of his prison cell. But there in the still air and dim light, he runs his fingers along the barrels of his great invention, and the names of his enemies keep him alive. There will be no rest until every one of them is gone. (In the darkness this weapon, this war- they’re the only things he has left. And the only things you have- you can’t help but love them, a little bit. Not a good, healthy feeling. A low-humming, twisted up hate that confuses and confuses and confuses everything you know.)

 Later, a world away from this jail, Percy hears the name of his war leave the mouth of the most politically powerful man on the continent. Something deep within him _shatters_.

 (Sometimes, your hate keeps you moving. Sometimes, it keeps you alive.)

 (Sometimes, you break underneath it.)

\---

  _[The ninth item in a crate of sensitive information given to this archivist by Lady Cassandra de Rolo, nine years after the Occupation. The handwriting in this log matches that of the second document, already recorded. The pattern of underlining for emphasis has continued, but the lines are slightly more shaky. Catalogued by Senior Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 ...old lady Monika was right, the forest is dangerous. I’ve been here 2 days now and there are entire hours where I don’t hear a sound. The silence is terrifying. I’m keeping my word to her, so I haven’t eaten anything but what I brought with me. When there are no sounds around me, I stay silent to. It feels like something’s always watching...

...I saw him today, in the shadow of an evergreen. He looked at me- that old poem is right about his eyes. They were strange, Other. I waved at him and he just kept _looking_ at me. So I took a step toward where he was standing and he was gone- I didn’t even blink, he just... the sun got in my eyes and he was gone.

 I’ll keep looking. Whitestone is looking for justice, he _has_ to answer. He _is_ the-

 _[The log ends abruptly, and when it begins again the hunter is talking about leading another man out of the forest._ “I felt like I’d been away for years, but I looked at him- it was like he was being reborn.” _There is no indication of either man’s name.]_

\---

 “ **_Sylas!_ ** _”_ and she’s there too, Delilah Briarwood. They’re coming to dinner (again). They’ll be in a room with people he cares about (again). This is... it’s _intolerable._

 And then, they have the nerve to get away.

 (Justice and Vengeance waltz through the wreck of his soul, merging and separating- he no longer knows how to tell the difference. He no longer knows if it matters.)

 And the driver, this **wretch** of a boy has the nerve to _exist_ -

 (The distant song in the back of his mind is getting **louder**.)

\---

  _[The sixth item taken from a crate of sensitive information given to this archivist by Lady Cassandra de Rolo, nine years after the Occupation. This letter is written in a furious scrawl, ink splattered against the bottom of the page. Whoever wrote this was writing fast and seems to have been agitated. Catalogued by Senior Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 ...we will _not_ forget the deaths of our children, our city sickening and the corpses hanging from the great Sun Tree. If Lady Cassandra cannot answer our call for justice then _we_ must take up the burden. How many more people will take our choices from us, if we do not wish to forgive the we do not _have_ to, atonement is something that is granted, and it is something that we cannot give...

  _[Of all the documents in the crate, this letter uses the most extreme language. It goes on to blame the members of Vox Machina for the deaths of several individuals that the Briarwoods killed. The author’s son was among the victims.]_

\---

 “This is for the de Rolos-” and though that distant song is echoing with his heartbeat Percival sees Julius, bloody and broken, and then he sees nothing but a dark haze-

 “And let me say: you were the one I was least looking forward to.”

 Kerrion Stonefell’s face caves in, splatters back and there is a _moment_ \- War is in the soul of Whitestone, and it echoes and the city _remembers the de Rolos_ and it calls- but all Percy hears is a voice saying **_“Yes.”_ **

 The smoke is thick around him, it billows under his mask... there is a revolution to start, a war to win. The deaths of his family, the ruin of his home- they will be _answered._

 (Sometimes, your hate carries you just far enough.)

\---

   _[Part of the twelfth verse added to Drink Up! (Or Aren’t We Free). Heard late in the night before the tenth Winter’s Crest since the Briarwood Occupation. Catalogued by Senior Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 ...Well Tylier was the cruelest one,

 Filled torture rooms to the brim-

 That brown bear tore ‘is head from ‘is neck,

 Too good for the likes of him!

  _[By this point in the song, singing has been going on for eight full minutes. But the line_ “Too good for the likes of him!” _is shouted at full volume by every singer, and reenergizes the crowd.]_

\---

 “You are, at the moment, the luckiest person in Whitestone-” and he wants Ripley dead but for Cassandra he can _hold_ against the pushing at his mind. It helps that there are greater enemies ahead, that he hates the Briarwoods more than Doctor Anna Ripley- but the truth of the matter is that something else has taken root within him. Percy has not felt hope in _years_ , but now it settles in his chest like a sapling. (The chaos inside of him continues, but there is a light on the horizon- the possibility of a dawn to end this endless darkness.)

 And there she is- Cassandra Johanna von Musel Klossowski de Rolo, his sister- and she’s bleeding, crying. The blood of the de Rolos, the blood of his _family_ splattering the floor as they fall one by one- this is unacceptable. This cannot be endured. It’s almost convenient, really, that Professor Anders is on the List.

 (Percy would have killed him anyway, for this moment. For Cassandra crying.)

\---

  _[Continuation of the twelfth verse added to Drink Up! (Or Aren’t We Free). Heard late in the night before the tenth Winter’s Crest since the Briarwood Occupation. Catalogued by Senior Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 ...Countess Janza lost ‘er head (Again!)

 In the middle of the town.

 Grog Strongjaw swung a mighty blow-

 And put that monster down...

  _[Grog Strongjaw remains a popular figure in Whitestone stories and songs, and recently a brand of ale was named in his honor. The Grand Poobah described the moment as_ “just the greatest, really” _before appearing too moved to speak.]_

\---

 “ _Traitor!_ ” and that’s really all that needs saying as he empties his gun into Anders. (There’s smoke rising all around him and Percival’s restraint is burning away, down to the bedrock of his being.)

 Ripley escapes because of _course_ she does, did he think this would be _easy?_ Nothing has been easy, not since he left this city.

 They stumble into a trap in their charming Vox Machina way, and when Percy moves to reassure his sister- Cassandra looks at him and something behind her eyes is fracturing, a fissure in her face shows her conflict- but the things she _says_.

“Your sister died the day those arrows found my chest.” The hope in his chest singes, leaves and roots shriveling up- how can he ask something so new to endure a betrayal like this?

  _Traitor traitor_ **_traitor, she_ ** **betrayed** **_you Percival._ **

 They were never particularly close, but he thinks of how a young Cassandra insisted on having her water in a goblet at dinner, so she wouldn’t be left out of the toasts. He thinks of the way she’d bent over books, trying feverishly to catch up with their siblings.

  **_Traitor, Percival, Traitor._ **

Her name is on the gun, on the record of people who’ve wronged him- but how can he do it, how can he kill his little sister.

 (The stones groan, deep and dark as the abyss. If he strikes at her, if he kills the only de Rolo who stayed in Whitestone- he will not walk away from such a thing unscathed.

 On that night in the snow, war did not grow in Cassandra’s chest. It has not driven her since. It’s death that hangs across her shoulders, seeps from the dark scars on her torso. She stayed in the city, though, and Whitestone loves her for it.)

\---

  _[The eleventh item in a crate of sensitive information given to this archivist by Lady Cassandra de Rolo, nine years after the Occupation. The structure and handwriting in this folder of notes indicate that it was written by the same hunter that wrote documents seven and nine. It appears that this document was a letter to someone named_ “Monika”, _presumably the same woman referenced in items two and nine. Catalogued by Senior Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 ...have to thank you for the list of supplies to take, because he _did_ ask me for “a piece of my home” after I asked him to help us. He took the rock, too, and didn’t give it back to me.

 When we got to the edge of the trees, he said that he needed to talk to Lady Cassandra (Used her full name, too. How do people remember what to call themselves, when they’ve got twenty middle names?) about Events Concerning the Occupation, and that I should go on ahead into town. And you know what I did? Exactly what he said.

 You don’t refuse something with eyes like that, I can’t explain it but despite his youth there was something _old_ hanging in the air around him. He said he’d put things right, and that we didn’t need to worry about getting him anything in return.

 I told him I didn’t want any debts between us and he- it was like he looked _through_ me for a second, I got chills all up my back- he said “You don’t balance a debt book against your children.”

 What did that mean, Monika? What didn’t you tell me, when I went looking for him?

  _[The letter continues at length, ending with a detailed sketch of someone’s face, captioned with a “_ What have I brought home with me? _” Further examination of the drawing could not identify this person, despite a loose resemblance to some older portraits of the reigning de Rolos.]_

\---

 “ **We have debts to settle, Sylas.** ”

 (In the ruin that is Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the Third’s soul, the tempo of a dark song increases- the finale is nearing, the climax is so close. Percival, with his war and his wounds and his weapons- he has run up a debt that can only be paid in one currency.)

 When Sylas Briarwood dies in a blaze of holy light-and-fire and not to the hot bite of a bullet, well, dead is dead Percival. His name is gone from the gun, isn’t it? You didn’t specify that you had to be the one to pull the trigger. It’s important to be precise, when you make these sorts of deals.

 Sylas is dead, Percival, but there are still two names remaining.

\---

  _[The fourth item taken from a crate of sensitive information given to this archivist by Lady Cassandra de Rolo, nine years after the Occupation. Item is a list labelled “_ Possible Solutions. _” Catalogued by Senior Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

-the herb garden that the late Lady de Rolo planted is alive again, if a slow decline is preferable. Accessing it is not the problem- the worry is that the man is too healthy to be affected by the poison.

 -with new trade flowing to the city, it shouldn’t be too hard to hire someone to do it. THe problem there is competency- we can’t risk being too loud and flashy, and we want to avoid all possible collateral damage.

 -if we are truly desperate, there is always the forest. Someone who believes in our cause could be convinced to go looking- if they choose to take the risk, perhaps this is the best solution.

 -maybe we could just ask...

  _[The list cuts off abruptly, and is unfinished if the length of the paper is any indication.]_

\---

 “ _No!_ ” Percy is ever at war, making plans upon plans, and even the demon within him cannot turn him from his purpose. And that purpose is not (will not be, can never be) the death of his family.

 There is a yawning emptiness in his soul, as Vengeance that has been in residence for so long is here. Behind him, curling over his back, whispering in his ear in the low voice that’s been singing to him for years. The deafening silence in his being, the utter absence of that distant, indecipherable melody- without his hate, without his vengeance, Percy is not sure quite what he is anymore.

 (Sometimes, your hate burns out and you have to figure out what to do next.)

 (The stones of Whitestone sing in their soundless voice- the call for its lost son is answered, as Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the Third stands in its heart, free of interference. The city curls around him, over him- a dragon over its hoard, growling- _NO MORE.)_

Scanlan looks up at Percy, after the fight, because killing that thing wasn’t enough. He’s heard stories like this one, and the fight is never the end of it. So he thinks hard, and looks at his friend. (Percy, who can’t see in the dark. Percy, who thinks too seriously about easy things and not seriously enough about complicated ones. Percy, who built something that will one day be a legendary sort of killing thing, right up there with cursed swords and blessed shields. Percy, who has wormed his way into Scanlan’s heart alongside the rest of their little band of adventurers.) It comes to him in a flash of memory, of inspiration- Scanlan has told a thousand tales, and he has a pretty good idea of how this one works out. He clears his throat and reaches for that tricksy, _magic_ register that makes people _trustlistenagree_ when he speaks:

 “Hey Percy, I think I know how to fix your gun.”

 (Whitestone loves the de Rolos, but that has never been enough to save them. It takes family, friendship, the love of living people to do that. Scanlan is willing to bear Percy’s wrath, his fury at being tricked- would carry the blame without complaint or argument. But the gunslinger is almost empty, now, and what fires that still burn within him already have a target.)

 There’s a _burblePOPhiss_ and Orthax’s physical anchor to the mortal named Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the Third has been destroyed. Only time will tell for the mark on his soul.

 There is still a Briarwood to deal with.

\---

  _[The thirteenth and final item taken from a crate of sensitive information given to this archivist by Lady Cassandra de Rolo, nine years after the Briarwood Occupation of Whitestone. Item is a sheaf of papers, all appearing to be drafts of the same document. The final draft is written on a higher quality of paper. Catalogued by Senior Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 It is the Will of the People of Whitestone that the problem of Goran Vedmire, who was Duke during the unlawful Occupation of Whitestone be addressed- that the proper Justice be awarded to his Victims and the families of said Victims. We provide this Record, so that in the case of our request going unanswered the Motive behind our Actions will be explained to a Satisfactory Degree in the eyes of the Council of Whitestone.

 To address the problem, it is Necessary to provide a list of Goran Vedmire’s Actions against the People and City of Whitestone...

  _[Here, there is a long list of charges- including but not limited to unlawful seizure of goods, assault, and murder. It appears that the authors of this document viewed Goran Vedmire as a figure that could be found guilty for crimes committed by all of the “New Nobles,” as the rest of his cohort was dead by this time.]_

 It is in the light of these Actions taken against our citizens that the People of Whitestone hereby Beseech the Council to carry out Justice against the one who has wronged us most grievously, and that if Direct Assistance cannot be given to this end- we would ask that Ignorance of our Actions be assumed by the Council of Whitestone.

 If we are successful in the pursuit of our goal and are found guilty of Treason, we will not move against those who would Detain and Subdue us. However, the People of Whitestone most passionately insist that Justice be carried out.

  _[The last page of this document bears an early seal of the Whitestone Council that can be easily dated because it lacks the dragonscale pattern that was added after the events surrounding the Chroma Conclave, during which Whitestone became a sanctuary for refugees fleeing the dragons. It is not in this archivist’s interest to speculate, but the presence of this seal seems to indicate an agreement from Whitestone leadership on the matter of Duke Goran Vedmire.]_

\---

 It’s Cassandra, who kills Delilah at the end of it.

 (Percy is war, a shadow burning on every horizon- the screams of his enemies indistinguishable from his own. A genius whose great muse was Vengeance itself, whose creations could cause as much pain as good. He’s loud and prone to quick thinking, speaking, acting- later, when he drives a sword into a dragon’s back Cassandra will be startled but not truly surprised- perpetually in motion. Percival thinks he chooses his battles wisely but, really, he chooses all of them.

 If her brother is war, Cassandra is death. Cassandra is a stony countenance and steady hands, no matter the battle within. If she were foolish enough to make a pact with a demon, it would never be one so _dramatic_ as her brother’s, flinging smoke this way and that. The Occupation of Whitestone has worn her down to her bedrock- if she was ever loud it is a distant memory now. If there was a time for her to be impulsive, it has passed. She is no longer a distracted little girl, teetering at the top of a staircase.

 The killing of his family taught Percy to hate- taught him to burn and turn his tinkering hands away from frivolities, toward weapons that shape histories.

 The deaths of her family, the years that followed them- Cassandra has learned how to endure. She lied, when she said she was a Briarwood, but on that night in the snow some part of her did die.)

 “You took them away from me, and now we’re taking everything away from you.”

 Something in the air _shudders_ , a green gleam that only she can see grabs her attention- a phantom grip on her arm tightens, but she is in no danger of falling this time. She drives the sword home.

 (Whitestone loves the de Rolos, but it could not save them. It could only give them a place to stand.)

\---

    _[Finale of the twelfth verse added to Drink Up! (Or Aren’t We Free). Heard late in the night before the tenth Winter’s Crest since the Briarwood Occupation. Catalogued by Senior Archivist JB Trickfoot.]_

 ...So Vedmire was the last to go,

 And good riddance to them all!

 Lost his guards and ran to the forest one night,

 He suffered quite a fall!

  _[Goran Vedmire did, in fact, die in the forest surrounding Whitestone. When his body was examined, the cause of death was determined to be a broken neck sustained from falling a great height. The examiner likened it to tipping over the side of a tall staircase and landing headfirst on a stone floor.]_

  _Hey_ oh, _hey_ oh,

 Drink up! Or aren’t we free-

 There’s plenty to face in the mornin’,

 But right now we’ve got you and me!

  _[This song remains on the list of local favorites, and is a guaranteed hit with nearly any Whitestone crowd. A quote attributed to the notable contemporary bard Kaylie Shorthalt states as much:_ “Whitestone? It takes an idiot to play a bad show in that city. All you have to do is start the first chorus of Drink Up! and the bar will give you a fifteen minute break while they take over singing. Then you get ten more minutes of reminiscing to sit through.” _Despite this cavalier statement, it is impossible to disregard the amount of local history that has survived in this song, even as other poems and stories have been lost.]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Machiavelli quote, "There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others."  
> As close to a Percy character study as I think I'm gonna get, but the Briarwood arc was my absolute favorite arc of the show. I! Love! Whitestone! Might do another fic like this sometime in the future, It was really fun to try out the codex entries. This is the longest (creative) thing I've ever written, and all in all I'm pretty proud of it.  
> Let me know if you liked it! Thanks for reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from a John Muir quote I really like, "Rocks and waters, etc., are words of God, and so are men. We all flow from one fountain Soul. All are expressions of one Love." The chapter title comes from the John Gay poem, The Persian, The Sun, and The Cloud.  
> This chapter turned out a lot more... corny than I intended it to be, but I like it too much to try and make it more "edgy" or "complex" or "fulfilling".  
> I hope you liked it too! Let me know :)


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